


The Night Is Long

by boneless_woman



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Anxiety, Awkward Conversations, Dalish Elves, Dalish Origin, Developing Friendships, Developing Relationship, Dorks, Dragon Age: Inquisition Spoilers, Falling In Love, Flirting, Insecurity, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-22
Updated: 2021-03-03
Packaged: 2021-03-04 04:07:36
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 11,077
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24857347
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/boneless_woman/pseuds/boneless_woman
Summary: The Inquisitor tries his best to navigate human society, but sometimes his Dalish origin shines through. Dorian thinks it's hilarious.In truth, though, Inquisitor Lavellan is incredibly lonely, and the nights in Skyhold are cold.
Relationships: Male Lavellan/Dorian Pavus
Comments: 14
Kudos: 74





	1. Climbing

The sun was not yet up, but the clouds over Skyhold were starting to blush a bright pink. The air was cold and crisp, birds were singing, and Nuada Lavellan sat perched in a tree in the lower courtyard. He was completely, unapologetically awake.

He snuck out to the tree when bad dreams woke him up in the earliest hours of morning and he did not have the courage to go back to sleep again. Here, he felt at peace, and for a little while he could close his eyes and be Nuada, the wild boy that charged through the woods on the back of a halla, wind in his hair, fire in his heart. 

Andraste’s Herald, the shemlen called him, as if they did not see the markings of Mythal that decorated his cheekbones; his Dalish heritage were an inconvenience they chose to ignore so that they could accept him as their saviour. Still, Nuada knew in his heart that this was the right path. If he had been granted the power to confront Corypheus, then it was his duty to do so, even though it was only chance that had put him in this position. He closed his eyes and leaned against the trunk of the tree, keeping the muscles in his legs tense to maintain his balance on the thin branch. The trees here were not good for climbing.

He listened to the birds, and could almost imagine he was in the woods with his clan again. Almost. But the birds were too few, and he could hear the faint clamour of soldiers beginning to wake up. Nuada got down from the tree before anyone found him; his feet hit the ground with a soft _thud_ , and he scurried back into the keep, to the Great Hall where breakfast would soon be served.

~

Josephine was upset today because she had seen Sera walk around with a big mustard stain on her tunic. “She is part of the Inquisition, how can she not think about how she presents herself?” the Ambassador exclaimed. They were in her office, and she was writing a letter while she spoke. “But Sera is not the only problem,” she continued, "have you seen Dorian, waltzing around like he owns this place? As a tevinter mage, he should know to be discreet, but there is no end to his arrogance. He is incapable of taking things seriously.”

Nuada did not believe that to be entirely true. “He seemed very serious when the two of us were stranded in time together, Ambassador.”

Josephine stopped writing, and pondered. She looked at him—and frowned.

Nuada became suddenly self-aware. Had he spilled something on himself during breakfast? He cast a quick glance down at his clothes: a nicely fitted tunic with silver embroidery along the hem, much too fine for him, and comfortable, straight-legged pants tucked into soft, knee-high boots—but he couldn’t spot any stains.

Josephine let out a small sigh of defeat. “I am sorry for making you listen to me, Inquisitor. Let me know if there is something you need.” 

It was a polite dismissal, that much Nuada had learned. He bid his advisor a good day, and left on silent feet. 

~

He was on his way down from the Rookery—Leliana had requested his opinion on whether to eliminate a potentially dangerous woman in Halamshiral or not, and he had listened to her, at a complete loss for what to do, until she had come to the conclusion that it was best to let her live. As he reached the bottom of the stairs and ventured out into the Library, there, searching through one of the shelves, was—

—Dorian. Despite everything they had been through, Nuada grew nervous in his presence. Perhaps it was because the man was so sure of himself; perhaps it was because he always looked flawless... but perhaps it was also _because_ of everything they had been through that Nuada did not know how to act around him now. Nuada slowed his steps as he neared him. “Good day,” he said.

Dorian startled, and turned around. “ _Kaffas_ , you always do that. You would think someone with your title would have heavier steps.”

“I apologise, Dorian.” Nuada was secretly very satisfied with himself.

Dorian looked like he was going to reply, but he stopped himself, and instead a small, amused smirk came over his lips. “Why, Inquisitor, you look positively _wild_ today, even more so than usual.”

Nuada blinked, confused. 

Dorian stared at him. Then he reached out a hand towards his face. 

Instinctively, Nuada reared back. 

But Dorian was fast as a viper, and plucked something from his hair. “See, this is why I sometimes wonder how you manage to lead the Inquisition,” he said, holding the leaf up to inspect it. The sun that came through the library window illuminated a long, white strand of hair clinging to it. 

Nuada’s cheeks were heating up. “Ah, I was—“ 

“Rolling around on the ground?” Dorian sounded beyond amused. 

“No!” 

“Climbing trees?”

“…yes.” 

“Of course you were.” Dorian smiled, wicked. “The Inquisitor, slayer of demons, vanquisher of darkness, wielder of an unknown power, and let’s not forget: tree climber extraordinaire.” 

Nuada’s cheeks were aflame. 

Dorian laughed. “Come, now, you know I am only teasing.”

“Ah—yes.” Nuada wished he could come up with something clever to say. 

Dorian was still holding the leaf. “Ah,” he said, and plucked the strand of hair from it. “This I believe is yours." And then he promptly reached over and wiped it stuck on Nuada’s shoulder. 

“Hey,” said Nuada, and brushed it off. When he looked back at Dorian, the man was grinning. 

“I almost forget how easy it is to get you worked up.”

Nuada wanted to change the subject. “Are you looking for anything in particular?” He indicated the bookshelf. 

Dorian sighed. “I’m trying to get my hands on something nice to read. Something that isn’t all about how bad Tevinter is, or how fantastic your Chantry is.”

The Dalish did not have many books, so Nuada was not well read. “Do you want me to put in a request with Josephine?” 

“No, let’s not trouble her further.” There was a pause. “I believe she is not very fond of me.”

“I think she misunderstands you.”

Dorian raised a perfectly groomed eyebrow. “Interesting. And I suppose you understand me, then?”

“I know you’re a good man.”

“Oh, but that’s where you’re wrong, Inquisitor. I’m a very bad man.” Dorian’s smirk was challenging.

Nuada recognised the joking tone in Dorian’s voice, but even so, he shook his head, resolute. “You’re not.” 

Dorian blinked, but composed himself quickly. “You’re so upfront, it is fascinating. Is it a Dalish thing?”

Nuada hesitated. Was he mocking him? “My Keeper taught me that honesty always wins, in the end.”

“Hm. I am not sure I agree.” There was a strangely somber note in Dorian's voice.

Nuada didn’t have the nerve to inquire further. “I think I must be on my way.” He added, “and I will ask Josephine about books.” Before Dorian could answer, he disappeared down the stairs. 

Nuada knew he should be uncomfortable around Dorian because he was from Tevinter, where they kept elves as slaves. He knew Keeper Deshanna would have frowned upon even speaking to a man such as Dorian. But—Mythal protect him—they had been sent forward in time together, where they had fought for their lives, and the fate of the world. Nuada had not had time to think about where Dorian was from — he was a good man, he had proven that, and that was all that should matter.

After, though, when they were safe at Haven, Nuada had started to second-guess himself. _What does he think of me? I’m just an elf; how could he ever deign to follow my lead?_ But Dorian _had_ followed his lead. Nuada had had a few conversations with him since then: mostly Nuada tentatively questioned him on the Imperium while listening to him brag about his good qualities; their conversation was more stilted now than before. But sometimes, in his dreams, Nuada remembered Dorian’s words, so confident, _“don’t worry, I’ll protect you.”_ It was strange, how quickly that had calmed him in that terrible place. 

No, he was not uncomfortable around Dorian because he was tevinter; he was uncomfortable around him because he always managed to catch him off guard. _"You look positively_ wild _today”_ had definitely sounded more intimate than it should. Dorian always sounded… flirtatious, and Nuada had realised that was how he was as a person, not something specifically aimed at him, but it _still_ made his cheeks heat up, every time. 

The sun shone bright as Nuada stepped out into the courtyard, but the air was cold. He set course for where he could see Cassandra, in the process of giving the training dummy a real beating. She had promised to teach him a technique she knew where he could use his twin daggers to parry even the swing of a greatsword. The exercise proved to be a good distraction, because he had to put every ounce of his focus into the fight—Cassandra showed him no more mercy than she had the dummy. 

But when Nuada was alone again at night in his chambers, in a bed that was too big, the icy wind beating against the windows and only the moon to bear witness, he cried slow, silent tears. Even if he managed to defeat Corypheus—which seemed an impossible feat — when all this was over, would his clan even want him back? The Inquisition’s men had saved them, and Keeper Deshanna had written to him, but he knew she did not like that he was being worshipped as the Herald of Andraste and that the name "Lavellan" was on so many people's lips. 

“I’m afraid,” Nuada whispered to the moon, and the wind howled.


	2. Sharing

When Dorian first met the Inquisitor, he was a bit surprised. He looked so young, he could not be a day over twenty-five. His elven features were smooth, his eyes bluer than the sky, and he had a tendency to run around with leaves in his hair. 

And then he had that strange power, that mark on his hand that no one, not even the elven mage Solas, knew what it was. 

The Inquisitor was certainly an enigma. With little to no knowledge of human society, he managed to lead the Inquisition—he had advisors to guide him, but even so, Dorian was impressed. The Dalish elves were regarded as hardly more than savages by most, and he was ashamed to admit that he himself had had a similar mindset, not too long ago. 

After their strange encounter with time magic, however, Dorian knew that he liked, and respected, the pretty elf boy that was supposed to be everybody’s saviour. They had come to rely on each other there, in that horrible, dark future, and Dorian knew there was no one else he would rather be stranded in time with. 

Dorian flirted with him after that; he just could not help himself. It was too easy to get a reaction from him. He knew it would not lead to anything, of course, but he was determined to enjoy it while it lasted. 

~

Dorian did not usually go with the Inquisitor on excursions, but he asked to accompany him when he heard they were setting out for the Exalted Plains. There were rumours of venatori being sighted there, and Dorian believed he could be of help.

The sun climbed higher as they trekked across the rocky hills, and by afternoon that day, Dorian was growing tired. His legs were aching, and he was sweating more than he would like to admit. He glanced at the Inquisitor, who had taken the lead— _he_ did not seem tired at all, there was a spring in his step as he scurried forward, sometimes taking a leap from one rock to another. It must come with growing up in the woods—or maybe Dorian was just getting old. But Cassandra was older than him, and she didn’t seem to be bothered, either. Dorian wiped some sweat from his brow, thinking perhaps he must start working out more.

Just then, the Inquisitor came to a halt, gazing intently at the jagged boulders uphill. They stood there for a few seconds, and Dorian was about to speak up and ask what the fuss was about, when the Inquisitor’s expression changed and he yelled, “get down!”

Dorian was too slow, and he felt something slice his arm. An arrow. He rolled over on the ground, got up a bit so he could see, and, _there_ —a figure ducked down behind a boulder. Their enemies had the advantage of the higher ground. From the corner of his eye, Dorian saw the Inquisitor, getting up on one knee and firing an arrow, all in one fluid motion, then quickly ducking down again, an enemy arrow striking the air where his head had just been.

Dorian saw someone step out from behind one of the boulders, and a flash of the person’s clothing—venatori. Dorian gripped his staff with grim determination, and while he doubted it would strike true from this distance, he let a spell fly.

The fight went quickly after that—Cassandra and the Inquisitor took on the three venatori that got out from cover and rushed towards them. While Cassandra swung her sword with what seemed like superhuman strength, the Inquisitor danced through the fight, his twin daggers flashing back and forth like extensions of his arms. Varric and Solas had found cover, and were sniping bolts and spells from there. 

Cassandra felled the last venatori by cutting his head clean off. Dorian let out a breath of relief, and lowered his staff. The Inquisitor looked his way, lowering his daggers; they were slick with blood. Dorian flashed him a smile. So fast it was only a blur, the Inquisitor’s arm moved back in an arc. The dagger came flying towards Dorian, glinting in the daylight—

—and right past him, connecting with someone behind him. Dorian spun around, and saw the last venatori slump to the ground, the Inquisitor’s dagger burrowed deep in his left eye. 

The Inquisitor came running. “Dorian! Are you okay?”

“For a moment, I thought you were going to hit me, Inquisitor.” Dorian let out a shaky laugh. His tone was joking, but in truth, when the dagger had come for him, he had been worried. But the Inquisitor had saved his life, again. 

“I didn’t, though,” said the Inquisitor, and sounded a bit like a child. 

Cassandra came up to them, and she gave Dorian a long look, but did not say anything. 

Dorian inspected the corpses around them. “Venatori,” he merely said. 

Cassandra and The Inquisitor nodded. Then The Inquisitor looked at Dorian again, and his eyes widened slightly. “Your arm!”. 

Dorian looked at the red streak where the arrow had graced him. It stung a little. “Oh, I’ve had worse tripping over my own feet.”

“Onto knives?” The Inquisitor’s voice was incredulous. He had not picked up on Dorian’s joking tone. Or perhaps he had ignored it. 

Solas and Varric joined them now. Varric slung Bianca over his back. “I suppose it was too much to hope for to think that we could go one day without being attacked.” he said.

Solas helped the Inquisitor bandage up Dorian’s arm. They exchanged some words in elven, whereupon Dorian frowned—were they talking about him?—and then they continued their trek. Only half an hour later, it started raining, a steady drizzle that soaked them through all the way. It stopped just before dusk; when they finally set up camp the clouds cleared, and they could see a red sun setting. Dorian was in a bad mood. His clothes were still damp, his arm was stinging, and… seeing venatori here had been strange. He had known they were here, but actually running into them—it made him uneasy. 

Cassandra soon had a campfire going, and they all sat down to have a meagre meal. Dorian wished they would use some spices, but all the food he had eaten since he had left his homeland had been terribly bland. Solas excused himself after dinner, and disappeared into one of the tents. Cassandra started sharpening her blade, Varric was humming some tune, content, and the Inquisitor was sitting cross-legged, seemingly lost in thought, his eyes reflecting the flickering flames. When she had finished sharpening her blade, Cassandra bid them goodnight and disappeared into another tent. 

The Inquisitor stifled a yawn. He was sitting very close to the fire, rubbing his arms, Dorian noticed.

The wind had died down, and Varric asked Dorian if he wanted to play a card game. He happily agreed. When they finished, Varric rose, and said, “I’m sharing with Chuckles today.”

Dorian blinked, confused. 

Varric continued, “I’m not with you again, Sparkler—you snore—and His Inquisitorialness' elbows are as sharp as his knives.” He added, as an afterthought, “Cassandra’s got her own ladies’ tent—I wouldn’t disturb her, if I were you.”

“You must have me mixed up with someone else, because I do _not_ snore.” Dorian tried to sound like he did not care, but in actuality, Varric's words bothered him.

“Sure,” Varric said, and smiled. “Good night. Watch out for elbows.” With that, he left. 

Dorian stretched out his back, (it cracked audibly), and realised the Inquisitor was not at the fire anymore. He looked around, and caught sight of him: he was standing some distance away, looking out over the plains. Illuminated by the last rays of the setting sun, in the middle of this wilderness, he looked—ethereal, that was the word. He didn’t belong in a world of nobles and politicking and scheming, not with that impossible starlight hair, those alluring tattoos framing his cheekbones, and that untamed look in his eyes. 

Dorian shrugged off his irritation at Varric's claiming that he snored. He walked up to the Inquisitor. “Apparently, I get to share with the Inquisitor tonight. How thrilling! Unless you assault me with your elbows.” Varric was probably right about the elbows—the Inquisitor was all lines and angles.

The Inquisitor must have heard him approach, because he did not startle. He turned his head to look at Dorian. “Ah. I—I will try to keep my elbows to myself.”

Dorian chuckled. “I’m teasing you again. Come, it’s late, let’s go to sleep.”

They entered the tent together. Dorian took off his boots, unfastened his leather armour, and then pulled his still-damp shirt off over his head. As he came out of it, he caught the Inquisitor quickly looking away. Dorian smirked. _Too easy_. 

The Inquisitor did not take off his shirt, to Dorian’s great dismay, he only dressed down to his pants and thin under-tunic. As Dorian lay down on his bedroll and pulled the blanket over him, he watched as the Inquisitor, still sitting up, shook out his hair from its bun. It was all tangled after the day, and he started brushing through it quickly. After that, he braided it, a simple, three-strand braid. Dorian could not look away. 

The Inquisitor lay down after that, and pulled the blanket all the way up to his chin. Into the darkness, he said, “I’m sorry for throwing that dagger so close to your face.” There was a pause. “But I don’t miss.”

Dorian was surprised at the confidence of those last words. Not bragging, but—fact. Dorian knew he _should_ answer with “thank you for saving my life” or something along those lines, but instead he said, “yes, I don’t think the face-scar look would suit me. It's sexy, to be sure, but too grim for me.” 

“Good night, Dorian.”

~

Dorian awoke early in the morning, way too early. 

“Dorian,” he heard the Inquisitor’s voice, “it’s s-s-so cold. Why is it s-so cold?”

Dorian blinked, the fog of sleep scattering. He sat up; the Inquisitor had scooted closer to him, still bundled up in his blanket. A thin layer of sweat coated his features, and Dorian frowned. “It isn’t that cold,” he said, and put a hand to the Inquisitor’s forehead. He was burning up. “However,“ Dorian continued, “ _you’ve_ got a fever.”

Dorian woke up the others, and Cassandra decided that they had to keep going anyways, since staying in one place for too long out here was asking for trouble—they had to get back to one of the main camps. The Inquisitor kept insisting he was fine, through chattering teeth. They continued, though Dorian saw the others sneaking worried glances at the Inquisitor ever so often. He was slower, his breathing was strained, the spring in his step gone. He did not seem to get better; by noon, he looked worse. 

As they descended a rocky slope, the Inquisitor was moving forward, clumsy but determined, so different from his agile jumps the day before. 

Dorian saw, too late to prevent it, the Inquisitor’s foot get caught on a stone, and he fell forward and tumbled down the slope until he came to a stop. 

Dorian ran to him where he lay in a heap on the ground, cradling his right foot. 

“Are you alright?” demanded Cassandra, also catching up. 

The Inquisitor looked—angry. “I think I twisted my ankle,” he began, furiously blinking back tears of pain that were forming at the corners of his eyes. “But I can still walk—“ he tried to stand up, grimaced in pain, and landed hard on his behind on the ground again.

“‘I can walk’ he says,” Dorian began, shaking his head. Then he bent down and picked him up in his arms. The Inquisitor was a good five inches shorter than him, and his body was so lithely built; he was light as a feather.

A small sound of surprise escaped the Inquisitor’s lips. Dorian wished he could save that sound permanently in his brain, so he could listen to it again later. “Let’s go,” Dorian said. 

Cassandra gave him a look that, if he did not know better, he would have sworn was impressed. 

Dorian noticed the blush on the Inquisitor’s cheeks, and found himself secretly hoping it was not from the fever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dorian definitely snores.


	3. Talking

When Mother Giselle approached him about Dorian, Nuada was confused. It was just after breakfast and he was on his way out of the Great Hall when she stopped him and explained about the letter. What Nuada could not understand was why she would want to keep it secret; it went completely against all of Nuada’s morals, and he had thought that she, too, had a sense of right and wrong—she was a representative of shemlen faith, after all. As she left, he heard a voice from behind him. 

“I couldn’t help but hear all that,” said Varric. He approached, hands in coat pockets, and cast a glance after the disappearing Revered Mother. “You’d think she’d understand that you’re gonna tell him.”

“How do you know I will?” Nuada replied, a bit cautious. 

Varric gave a half-laugh. “Let’s call it a hunch, Pointy.”

Varric was right: Nuada went straight to Dorian. It was not hard to find him; he was in the library, lounging with a book in one of the plush armchairs. 

For once, Dorian looked up in time to notice him approach. “Ah, Inquisitor! Here to take my mind off this incredibly dull book, I see.”

Nuada sat down on the edge of the other armchair, his back straight. “Why are you reading it if it’s so dull?” he inquired.

“Because I have to read _something_ , or I’ll go mad.” 

Nuada did not quite understand. Then he thought of the tree in the lower courtyard, and how _he_ would probably go mad if he could not climb up and sit there sometimes, and he figured that it was the same thing as Dorian and his reading. He nodded. Then, after a slight hesitation, he reached into his pocket and held out the letter. 

~

Seeing Magister Pavus was a strange experience—he looked like an older version of Dorian, minus the moustache—and his voice was so earnest that it fooled Nuada at first. What he said, though, and what Dorian revealed about their past, made a raw anger stir in Nuada. It was something that he would not have been able to feel for himself, but now, seeing Dorian flinch at his father’s words like a child, it hit like a white-hot wave: Nuada was ready to draw his blades and open up rifts. He did neither; instead he put a hand on Dorian’s shoulder and let it stay there. Dorian’s father noticed, and Nuada stared at him; a challenge, and he felt braver than he had in a long time. 

On the trek back to Skyhold, Nuada was silent. He knew that Dorian was embarrassed that he had witnessed everything, and he did not want to make him feel worse than he already did by bringing it up directly after. 

When they got back, however, Nuada went to speak to him. He had some things he had to say about it, even if Dorian wanted to pretend it had not happened. He found him in the library, as usual. Nuada had barely greeted Dorian before Mother Giselle came to interrupt them. Tentatively, while sneaking glances at Dorian, she explained about the rumours that had started going around about “the Inquisitor and the tevinter mage.” Nuada would have blushed if it were not for the anger rising up anew—cold, this time. He told her to go. It was not the best move, perhaps. 

Dorian did not seem to think so, either. “Was that really wise? Maybe you should listen to her; do you really want those kind of rumours going around?” His tone was easy, but there was something else underneath. 

“I don’t care.” Nuada knew it was childish, but right now, he did not care about that either.

Dorian did not say anything. 

Nuada calmed a bit. “I’m sorry. I know what you mean, I just… 

“‘I don’t care,’ he says, with such passion. Are you sure, if people start talking about the _evil tevinter magister_ —“

“I think your father is very wrong, and I think you are very brave,” Nuada interrupted. 

Dorian hesitated. He looked actually taken aback, for a moment, but recovered quickly. “You’re really upset about this, Inquisitor.” He gave a wry smile. “I am touched that you would defend my honour so.”

Nuada sighed, a small, ghost of a sigh. He sat down in one of the armchairs.

Dorian sat down in the other, watching him. 

“It… is not the same thing, but…” Nuada began. “When I was younger, only a teenager, I was in love with a boy in my clan.”

Dorian did not say anything, but Nuada noticed that he went still, and knew he had his attention.

“His name was Valen. We started out as friends; we were often assigned tasks together. He had the prettiest red hair.” Nuada continued, before his courage failed him, “we grew… closer. Then, one day, Valen started avoiding me. He asked to be assigned another hunting partner, and wouldn’t look me in the eye in the evening when we all gathered around the fire.” Nuada paused. It was not that long ago, but for some reason it felt like a lifetime had passed since—everything before the Inquisition was distant and vague, like a dream. 

“What did you do?” asked Dorian. 

“I confronted him about it.” Nuada met Dorian’s eyes. 

Dorian gave a small laugh. “Of course you did,” he muttered. 

“What does that mean?” 

“You’re always so direct, so honest.”

Nuada frowned.“My Keeper taught me to—“

“No,” said Dorian. “It’s more than that, isn’t it? Or were _all_ the other boys in your clan so honest?”

Nuada fell silent.

“As I thought,” said Dorian, satisfied.

“Well” said Nuada, a bit embarrassed, for some reason, “in any case, I confronted Valen, and he told me that we couldn’t be together.”

“Ah," said Dorian, as if he knew what was coming.

“He said that we had to fall in love with girls, because we had to have children to contribute to our clan’s survival.” Nuada paused. “It's true that the Dalish’s numbers are dwindling, so it makes sense.”

Dorian was quiet. 

“I guess…. what I’m trying to say is, I know what it feels like to feel—wrong.” Nuada finished. 

Dorian was still quiet. Finally, he said, “you know, I don’t think he deserved you.” 

Nuada didn't know what to say. Why had he brought this up? Now it sounded as if he wanted to make everything about himself.

“I need a drink. Care to join?” Dorian's tone was light again.

~

When they got to the tavern, Krem was sitting at the counter, a ridiculously large mug of ale in his hands. 

“That’s a big drink” Nuada said, and then cursed himself for stating something so obvious. 

Krem laughed. “It’s a pint, Your Worship. You should try one.” 

Dorian smirked, and sat down. “Be careful, Inquisitor. I think young Cremisius is trying to get you drunk.” 

Krem gave Dorian a wary glance, but then he looked at Nuada again, and seemed to relax. He scoffed. “Speak for yourself, Mister Pavus.” He took a big swig. 

Nuada took a seat beside Krem and ordered “the same as him.” Nuada figured that if he could lead the Inquisition, he could have a full pint of ale. 

Dorian sat down on Nuada’s other side, and ordered in a bottle of red wine. 

At first, they talked about random things: Krem told Nuada about another of the Chargers’ crazy fights, and Dorian told them ridiculous stories about people he had known in Tevinter. When Nuada’s pint was half empty, he told them, wistfully, about the woods he had grown up in. “The sunlight would filter through the leaves like…. like golden… Wait no, that’s not it, more like—“

Krem looked amused. “Your Worship, I didn’t know you were such a poet.”

Dorian smirked, and said, “this is way more entertaining than the books I’ve been reading lately.”

Nuada frowned. “You’re making fun of me.”

“No, no, we’re not,” assured Dorian, but could not quite keep the laughter from his voice. “Tell us more about the forest. What did you do, except hunting?”

Nuada took another sip, and gazed up into the wooden boards of the ceiling. “Valen and I used to climb trees.”

Dorian sighed, exasperated. “Of course _that’s_ what you did. I should have figured…”

Krem looked intrigued. “Who’s Valen?”

Nuada flashed Krem a smile, his head spinning from the alcohol. “Someone from my clan.” Then he turned back to Dorian. “But no, Dorian, you don’t understand. We used to _climb trees_.” 

Krem spat out some of his drink. 

Dorian blinked, and looked at Nuada as if he was seeing him for the first time. 

Nuada’s grin widened; he felt positively smug. He took another sip, drawing out the moment. His pint was almost empty by now. “It’s what you say to the elders when they inquire about why you’re going out into the woods together.”

Dorian laughed, and that sound was worth everything. “You certainly never fail to surprise, Inquisitor.”

Krem discreetly wiped the ale from his chin, and then he looked from Nuada to Dorian, and back again. “Right,” he began. “I almost forgot, the Chief said we had late night practise. I... have to go.”

Nuada frowned. His thoughts were slow and muddled. Why would they have practise _now_? That made no sense. But before he could protest, Krem got up, saluted them "Your Worship, Mister Pavus" and was on his way out. 

Dorian looked after him, a thoughtful expression on his face. 

“That’s very strange” said Nuada, and his words slurred a little. Apparently, he could walk physically through the Fade and survive, but he could not down a pint unaffected. 

Dorian raised an eyebrow. He did not seem drunk at all. “I think we should call it a night, too. You seem to have had quite enough.” Dorian stood up. 

“I’m fine,” said Nuada, grumpy, and immediately proved himself wrong as he rose from the stool and swayed like a young tree in a strong breeze. 

Dorian was there in an instant. “Easy, Inquisitor.” He let Nuada lean on him, and they made their way out and into the keep. It was late, and not many were up, but they passed a few servants. Nuada could not bring himself to worry about that, now. All he could think of was how nice it felt to cling to Dorian's arm. 

When they reached Nuada’s chambers, Dorian stopped. “I hope you can manage from here. Goodnight, Inquisitor. I’m going to warn you that you’ll probably have a headache tomorrow.”

As Dorian turned to leave, Nuada said, quietly, “Nuada.”

Dorian turned. “I’m sorry?”

“I’m your friend. So call me Nuada. At least in private.” 

For the merest of moments, Dorian looked taken aback again. “Of course. Goodnight… Nuada.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Krem realises before they do, of course.


	4. Dancing

Dorian was surprised to hear that he was to be part of the company to go to the Winter Palace. He knew how to handle nobility, and how to play the Game, but he was also a tevinter mage. 

He got an appointment with the Ambassador and a seamstress, and put in a request for what clothing he would like to have made for the ball. Ambassador Montilyet frowned as he explained, but she did not protest. People were already going to see him as an evil tevinter magister, so he figured he might as well embrace it. 

They set off, and when the day came, they changed into their fine clothes at the campsite. It was a rather strange sight, all of them standing there among the bushes and dirt, decked out in their finest. Dorian’s clothes were all in gold and black: a fine, embroidered, high-collared tevinter coat that flared to the knees, loose pants taken in at the ankles, and satin slippers. Lady Montilyet was wearing a tasteful, voluminous purple gown with very puffy puff sleeves—a bit too proper in Dorian’s opinion. The Nightingale was wearing a tastefully scandalous turquoise gown with matching gloves. Varric Tethras was wearing a fine red coat with gold embroidery—classy. Madame de Fer was a walking fashion icon, of course, especially next to Cassandra and Commander Cullen, who were wearing Inquisition uniforms.

“How do I look?” a voice came from behind them.

Dorian turned—and stared. 

Nuada was wearing elven style, if not actually elven, clothing: a loose silk shirt taken in at the waist by an intricately carved silver belt; tight pants; knee high elven boots, and a light green, short cape that only hung over one shoulder and accentuated the green of his tattoos. His hair was braided back with a silver band, and then fell loose past his shoulders. He looked like something from a dream.

Dorian wondered whose idea it had been. Everyone would shun Nuada for being an elf anyways, so this was just about making a statement—that was exactly why Dorian had chosen tevinter clothing for himself. As Dorian saw Leliana’s face, a small smirk on her lips, he had his answer.

~

When they stepped inside the palace walls, Dorian felt, for one surreal moment, that he was home again. The scents, the dresses, and the whispers were so familiar that he was nearly fooled. The danger that permeated the air was a danger that he was used to, one that he could navigate in his sleep.

Duke Gaspard de Chalons met them when they entered, and Dorian noted how vague, but still perfectly polite, Nuada was when he talked to him. Only a few weeks ago, Nuada would have stuttered, or said something awkward. Now there he stood; straight-backed, unfazed, talking to the duke as if he had never done anything but navigate noble society. When the duke left, though, Dorian saw Nuada let out a sigh of relief, and then take a deep breath to steel himself before he went onward. 

As they crossed the garden, Dorian heard fragments of whispered conversation in their wake, “what is he wearing?”, “but he’s an elf, how can he be Andraste’s herald?”, “are those dalish tattoos?”, “I hear they’re savages that live in the woods.”

Nuada was trying to hide it, but Dorian could see by the twitch of his mouth and the tension in his jaw that the words were getting to him. 

Dorian sidled up to him as they reached the big double doors, leaned close and quietly said, “did I tell you, you look gorgeous tonight.”

Dorian had not thought it would work, but Nuada looked at him, wide-eyed. Then, he nodded, determined, and Dorian could swear his steps were more confident as he strode into the palace. 

~

Dorian tried to keep an eye on Nuada after they were presented to the court and started mingling. He was mostly worried because the elf could not hold his liquor—if he got drunk, it did not matter that the Ambassador had taught him the ways of the court. So far, though, Nuada had only been sipping the same drink for the past half hour. 

Dorian started the evening at Madame de Fer’s side, but after a while he excused himself. Being a tevinter here was not fun, and the orlesians didn't even bother to be subtle with their insults. 

Dorian caught sight of Nuada again. A lovely girl with luscious dark locks pinned up on her head was talking to him. She could not be older than eighteen. She was leaning closer, and her corset pushed her breasts up so high that Dorian was afraid they would spill out. Nuada was starting to look uncomfortable. 

Of course these scheming nobles would try to snatch the Inquisitor for one of their daughters to marry, no matter that he was an elf. An older lady stood a bit away, now and then casting glances at them—Dorian presumed it was the girl’s mother, checking to see how her daughter was doing. _Terribly_ , thought Dorian, _and she should know better than to think pushing her breasts up in his face is going to sway him. At least her mother should know better._

In any case, Nuada looked like he was in dire need of an evil tevinter magister saving him.

“Inquisitor, there you are!” Dorian exclaimed as he approached, and Nuada and the girl both turned. A flash of relief passed over Nuada’s face, and Dorian knew he had made the right choice. 

The girl gave him a cold but wary look. “Oh,” she said, “we haven’t met. I’m Louise de Mourier, a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

“The pleasure is all mine, my lady,” Dorian answered.

“Ah,” the Inquisitor said, “Lady Louise, this is my dear friend Dorian Pavus “

The girl smiled, wide and fake. “Oh, of course, I have heard about you.”

“Yes, I can imagine,” said Dorian, all smiles back. “How are you finding the evening so far, Lady Louise? 

A small frown creased the girl’s brow, then. It made her look more childlike. “Oh, the company is very pleasant. I’m looking forward to the dancing.” She glanced at Nuada.

 _Not very subtle, dear Louise._ “I am very sorry then,” Dorian began, not sounding sorry at all “for I must steal the Inquisitor from you—the Lady Nightingale is looking for him.” He added, with a smile, “but you have the dancing to look forward to!”

~

The Nightingale had made up a plan, and after Dorian brought Nuada to her to escape Lady Louise de Mourier, she sent Dorian off to the gardens to keep an eye out there. The gardens were nice, the music pleasant, but Dorian did not like being away from the main events.

After an hour or so, the Inquisitor approached, brow furrowed. “Some strange things have happened. I need to look around a little.”

Dorian raised an eyebrow. “Now that is what we like to hear. What would a party be without some snooping?”

“Stay here and distract the nobles,” Nuada said.

Dorian did not like being told what to do, but the commanding tone of Nuada’s voice was kind of sexy. He smiled. “You’ve come to the right man. I’m good at being distracting.”

Nuada did not respond like Dorian hoped, he only nodded and set off, clearly not distracted. 

He scaled the walls and balconies like a spider, and once again, Dorian could not help but be impressed. If _he_ had tried to do that, he would have sprained both his ankles and his neck. When Nuada climbed, it looked effortless, fluid… Dorian shook his head. He was supposed to distract the nobles, not _be_ distracted by the Inquisitor’s lithe body. He turned back to the party. 

~

Dorian returned to the main hall again just as the dancing was about to begin. He had to admit he was rather curious of whether Nuada would be able to pull off orlesian dancing. He positioned himself so he would be able to see out over the floor. He realised, after a few moments, however, that the Inquisitor...

...was heading towards him. Conversation around them paused. 

Nuada looked at him, blue eyes like fire, and said, loud and clear, “may I have this dance, Dorian Pavus?”

The ballroom was holding its breath. 

It would be worse if Dorian did not accept, of course. So he smiled, devilish, and gave the Inquisitor his hand. “Naturally, Inquisitor Lavellan.”

The whispers started as they moved out onto the dance floor to join the other couples.

“People will talk,” said Dorian quietly, as they took their places on the floor. 

“Let them,” said Nuada, and the music started.

Dorian could hardly argue with that. As they danced, he found that he liked this version of the Inquisitor. Not that he did not like him when he was all flustered and nervous, but… there was something very exciting about being talked back to. 

Nuada had learned the dance very well, in such a short time that he had had to practise with the Ambassador. 

In any other circumstance, Dorian would have enjoyed dancing with Nuada—he would probably have flirted with him, too—but now, everybody was watching them, whispering, plotting, and it was a stilted orlesian dance.This was only for show—to invite Dorian to dance was probably Leliana’s idea, too. Dorian did not have much time to ponder further, because after the dance, someone tried to kill the Empress.

~

Later, Dorian found Nuada on one of the balconies, alone. He had his back to him, gazing out over the courtyard, the starry night sky above. For once, he did not seem to have noticed him. 

Nuada did turn as Dorian approached, but stayed silent. Dorian leaned against the balcony railing beside him, and gazed out over the castle grounds. He drew a deep breath of the fresh night air. It cleared his head, scattered the fog of alcohol and intrigue. 

They stayed like that, silent, for a while. Then, Dorian asked, “are you alright?” 

Nuada’s eyes flitted to him for the merest moment, before they returned to gaze down at the grounds. “I… this is not…” he paused, looking for words. “I’m out of my depth, clearly. But we saved the Empress’ life, so that must count as something. Right?” The insecure Nuada was back. 

“You did excellent. You talked and danced like a noble, while occasionally disappearing for some snooping, and then you got back, without anyone noticing, in time to save the Empress. Plus,” Dorian added, “I think there’s at least ten girls here who would like to marry you.”

Nuada had started to smile while Dorian talked, but at the last statement, his eyes went wide in fear. It looked almost comical, and Dorian had to suppress a laugh. 

“Wha—that’s ridiculous!” Nuada exclaimed. 

Dorian smirked. “Is it? You are quite the catch, Inquisitor.” He tried not to let his gaze linger too long on the flash of exposed collarbone that appeared, pale, and even paler in the starlight, when Nuada leaned further forward over the railing. 

Dorian wondered if he should be daring tonight, or not. He could not deny any more that he was attracted to the Inquisitor; Nuada, this strange man that had turned his life upside down. 

Nuada looked at him, then, his eyes a soft blue glow. “Thank you. For coming with me here.”

“Oh, I could never resist a party like this. Excellent food, scandalous secrets, and a little murder to top it off.” Dorian tried to make his tone jovial, but it did not quite succeed. 

Nuada gave a half smile. 

Dorian hesitated. Then, he took a step back, made a flourishing bow, and held out his hand. “May I have this dance, Inquisitor, away from the wicked eyes in there?” 

Nuada considered him for what felt like an eternity. Dorian did not know if he imagined it, but he thought that for a second, Nuada’s eyes flickered to his lips. It was probably wishful thinking. Then, Nuada said, “but Dorian, away from the wicked eyes inside, I’m not the Inquisitor.”

Dorian blinked. It took him a few seconds to realise. “My apologies.” He paused. “Would you like to dance, Nuada?”

Nuada took his hand, and they danced under the stars until the Ambassador came to get them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For some reason, this chapter was incredibly hard to write. I had to rewrite it several times, that's why it took me so long D:


	5. Drinking

Nuada tried not to dwell on the events at the Winter Palace, but it was hard. Since he had not been drinking, he remembered everything perfectly clear, the people especially: sneering at his appearance, whispering behind his back. “Let's show them scandalous,” Leliana had muttered, and instructed him to ask Dorian Pavus to dance. During that dance, Nuada had been so nervous about other things that he had not had time to be nervous about the fact that he had been dancing with Dorian. 

And then, they had danced again, alone. That time, they had been so close, Dorian’s face mere inches from his, and Nuada had realised with sudden clarity the thoughts that he had tried to suppress for so long. His gaze had caught on the man’s jawline, his nose, the carefully styled moustache, and then his lips. 

Nuada felt embarrassed even thinking about it, but he had harboured some silly hope that Dorian would kiss him. That had not happened, and they had travelled back to Skyhold. _Maybe_ , a small voice said in the back of Nuada’s head said, _maybe_ you _have to kiss_ him. That thought was terrifying. No, he could not do that. He was still afraid that Dorian would laugh at him if he told him. Nuada felt… inadequate, no matter that he was the Inquisitor—it felt like an empty title. He was an adult, but he was inexperienced. He had never been confident about his looks, either, especially not since he started associating with humans. Dorian… he was way out of Nuada's league. They were friends, and that was it. He could not allow himself to think of more. 

And still, he did. 

~

The arrow hit the target with a _thud_. Nuada lowered his bow.

Sera grinned. “Huh. Not bad. So you Daley people _do_ know where to stick it, after all?” 

Nuada did not dare answer that. He watched as Sera took a shot; bullseye. He was glad to have someone to practise with, because while he preferred his twin daggers, there were times when it was better to attack from a range. 

"Your turn," Sera said. 

Nuada adjusted his stance, and drew his bow. From the corner of his eye, he caught sight of Dorian, heading towards the stairs leading up to the Main Hall—on his way to the library, if Nuada knew him. The mage raised a hand in greeting as he passed, and Nuada nodded in acknowledgement. Sera flashed a toothy grin. 

Nuada turned back, and focused on the target. He tried to chase away the image of Dorian, his face so close, illuminated by starlight, from his mind. He aimed, carefully. 

“Mwahahaha!” boomed Sera.

Nuada’s arrow went flying well above the target and into the bushes behind. 

Sera continued, turned towards Dorian, “somethin’ like that?”

“You’re getting closer. But it’s more like, “bwahaha!” came Dorian’s answer from halfway up the stairs. 

Nuada breathed out. “What was that about?” he asked, quietly, when Dorian had disappeared inside.

Sera was still grinning. “I want to figure out how them tevinters laugh. They oughta sound more _evil_ than Dorian, right? More like Coryphephis.”

Nuada was not sure if she was joking or not. He aimed another arrow. 

“Heh,” Sera said, “he was totally checking out your arse.”

The arrow went astray again. There was a long silence. “Who?” Nuada managed. “Corypheus?”

Sera scoffed, and looked after the arrow. “I take it back. You don’t know where to stick it.”

~

“Hey, Pointy, you up there?”

Nuada looked down through the leaves to the source of the voice. Varric stood below the tree, his chest hair even more impressive from this angle. “Ah, is Cassandra looking for me?”

Varric frowned. “You know, I’m not the Seeker’s errand boy.” He shook his head. “We’re gonna play a game of Wicked Grace. You in?”

“Wicked Grace? That sounds… ominous.” Nuada shifted his weight on the branch, and a few leaves rustled down over the dwarf. 

Varric laughed. “It’s a card game. Even Ruffles is joining tonight.”

Nuada narrowed his eyes. “That doesn't make it sound less ominous.”

“Everybody’s waiting for you. Sparkler said, and I quote him, ‘our dear Inquisitor needs to learn how to have fun.’”

Nuada fought the rising heat in his cheeks. “Ah. I suppose I can’t refuse, then.”

Varric gave him an unreadable look. 

Nuada let go and jumped down. 

When they stepped inside the tavern, they were met by a wave of laughter. It was something that once would have intimidated Nuada and made him want to run back to his tree again, but now, while he was feeling a bit nervous, he was also excited. These were his friends at the table, drinking and being merry after battles fought together. 

“Inky is here!” yelled Sera. She seemed a bit drunk already. 

“Inquisitor,” the Ambassador greeted him. The rest also bowed their heads in respectful greetings, and Nuada took a seat between Varric and Josephine. Dorian was diagonally across from him at the table. Nuada could not look at him. He had been thinking so much of the man these past days that actually interacting with him had become difficult. 

“Now,” began Varric, a devilish glint in his eye, “let’s play.”

~

“You have to take something off, Pointy,” whispered Varric, loud enough for everybody to hear. 

Nuada’s eyes widened. “Oh.” He cleared his throat. “Right. That’s how it works.” He could feel all the eyes of the room upon him. 

“This is all quite barbaric, if you ask me,” muttered Josephine, though Nuada could swear he could detect a trace of amusement in her voice. 

Nuada reached up his hands towards his head, and, slowly, he untied his hair-tie. His hair fell loose around his shoulders. He placed the leather strap on the table. 

There was a moment of stunned silence, and then Sera started laughing. The rest fell in—even Josephine hid a giggle behind her hand. 

Nuada smiled, sheepish, and then he caught Dorian’s eyes. They were intent on him, and while an amused smile graced the man’s lips, there was something else—Nuada could not pinpoint exactly what. Disappointment? No, that was wishful thinking on his part. 

The game continued. Varric, the Iron Bull, Josephine and Leliana played expertly, while Cullen struggled as much as Nuada. 

Soon enough, Sera yelled, “clothes off, Cully-wully!” 

“Now I wish I had long hair,” came Cullen’s muffled mumble, as he, blushing, pulled off his shirt. 

Dorian was not very subtle about inspecting Cullen’s muscled chest. Nuada could not hold back the pang of jealousy. The feeling did not last long, though, not when everyone around him seemed so genuinely happy for once. The evening went on, and Nuada soon lost count of how many times his glass was refilled. 

Leliana was the first one to excuse herself, and left with Josephine. They were soon followed by Cassandra and Blackwall, then the Iron Bull and Cole, and then only Varric, Sera, Dorian and Cullen remained. 

“I think perhaps we should wrap it up now. Cullen has run out of clothes,” Varric said. 

The Commander was looking very uncomfortable.

When Nuada stood up, the floor swayed beneath him. He felt an arm coming to save him, and looked up to see Dorian. 

“Sorry,” Nuada said. 

“It seems you still cannot hold your liquor, Inquisitor," Dorian sighed. 

Nuada frowned. There were two Dorians, but when he blinked, they melded into one again. He realised he was being led towards the exit, as Sera called after them,

“Be nice to Inky, he’s a viiirgin!” A crazy cackle followed. 

“Am not!” Nuada managed to yell back. He was, thankfully, too drunk to blush.

“And I’m always nice!” retorted Dorian.

Once more, Dorian helped Nuada to his chambers. The difference was that tonight, Nuada felt daring. After everything that had happened, he felt, suddenly, that he could not wait any longer. Maybe they would all be dead soon, and… They reached his chambers, and Dorian let go of him for a second to open the door. Nuada took a step, and stumbled.

“Oh, careful, Inqui—Nuada.” Dorian steadied him, and led him into the room. “Now, here,” he said, and helped sit him down on the bed. “You should have some water before you go to sleep, or you’ll have a terrible headache when you wake up tomorrow.” He paused. “Scratch that, you’ll probably have a terrible headache either way. But you should still have some water.”

“Right,” Nuada managed. His own voice sounded strange and far away in his ears. The only coherent thought in his head right now was that he really, really wanted his hands on Dorian’s body, and Dorian’s on his.

He had tried so hard not to fall for him. _Think of how bad it ended with Valen_. But it was too late, now. Dorian was sitting in his bed, with his hands on his shoulders, looking at him, actual concern creasing his brow. 

The world was still spinning, but the cold wind outside felt far away. Everything was warm and fuzzy. “The rumours, Dorian,” he said. 

Dorian laughed. “I think you’ll have to elaborate.”

“The—the rumours about us.”

Dorian stiffened. “Ah. Yes, what about them?”

“What if they were true?”

There was a pause, and then Dorian’s eyes widened slightly.

Nuada let himself fall, finally. With a laugh, he leaned forward and kissed him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And there we go... It's a bit short, but I wanted to cut it here;)


	6. Kissing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *I'm still alive* *promise*

Nuada’s lips tasted of summer and wine; it was utterly intoxicating. Dorian was so stunned that he could not bring himself to respond. Nuada kissed him more insistently, leaned his whole body into him, surrendered like it was easy. 

Dorian had thought of this moment so many times. In those fleeting daydreams it had always been he who initiated, he who seduced the lovely, innocent Inquisitor. Now, Nuada was kissing him with an honesty that could be partly from the drink, but would be mostly from the elf’s own nature—it was almost ironic. 

It felt entirely different from any other man he had kissed, and it was too much. It took everything Dorian had to break away. He pulled back and grabbed Nuada harshly by the shoulders. “Nuada,” he managed, a little breathless. 

Nuada blinked, and it took a few seconds for his eyes to focus. “Is something wrong?” Those beautiful eyes, the lilac blue that precedes the pink of dawn. 

Dorian took a deep breath to calm himself, and to not let Nuada see how he had affected him. “You are drunk, Inquisitor, and not acting sensibly at all. You need to sleep.” He had to force the words out. Oh, he wanted nothing more than push the elf down on the bed and kiss him until neither of them could think. But it was not right, not when Nuada was like this—it stung, but Dorian knew that Nuada would not have kissed him had he not been drunk. They could not keep going. He could see it: they would wake up in the morning and Nuada, lovely, inexperienced, and honest Nuada, would be horrified at having slept with a tevinter mage. No, Dorian was not going to let that happen. 

There was hurt and confusion in Nuada’s eyes, and Dorian realised he had addressed him by his title and not his name. Perhaps it was for the best. Nuada looked like he was about to say something, but Dorian interrupted, “I am not going to take advantage of you in this state, Inquisitor. Now lie down, and I’ll get you some water.” Dorian let go of him, and went away. 

When he returned with a pitcher and a cup, Nuada lay sprawled on top of the covers, asleep. He really must have been drunk beyond his senses. Dorian stopped to look at the beautiful, fine bones of Nuada’s face, the faint flush that lingered on his cheeks, the slow rise and fall of his chest. He poured a cup from the pitcher and placed it on the nightstand, and (with some difficulty) managed to put Nuada under the covers. After that, he left. 

The corridor outside was dark and abandoned, and Dorian breathed out a sigh of relief. It was not only for Nuada’s sake that Dorian had not let himself give in to temptation. If they had spent the night together, Dorian would not be able to bear Nuada’s apologetic looks afterwards, could not bear the thought of—of never doing it again. Dorian had allowed himself flirting—flirting was what he did, after all, it was part of his persona, and it did not have to mean anything, plus it was amusing to see Nuada all flustered. But after actually getting to know the Inquisitor, the impossible Dalish elf that held the fate of the world in his hands… something had stirred in Dorian, a longing he could not explain. What he wanted was foolish, it was something that could never be. It was better to stop right now. 

With that decision, Dorian returned to his own chambers and went to sleep, hoping that Nuada would not remember in the morning. 

~

It had been too much too hope for, of course. Judging from the strange looks and nervous behaviour of the Inquisitor the next day, he seemed to remember. 

They were, thankfully, not left alone, because now preparations were being made to march to the Emerald Graves; there were more people running about Skyhold and half of them needed the Inquisitor’s opinion on some matter. 

Dorian avoided Nuada’s looks, and helped with the preparations.

~

Arriving at the Emerald Graves, Dorian was assigned with Seeker Pentaghast, Solas, and the newest addition to the Inquisition, Lady Morrigan, to accompany the Inquisitor to the Temple of Mythal. 

Dorian watched from a distance as Nuada spoke to Ambassador Montilyet, issued orders to Commander Cullen, and received whispered information from Leliana. 

It struck Dorian again how far the elf had come. The confused elf boy that had burst into the chantry in Redcliffe, his hand crackling green with a power he did not know, had turned into a determined leader whose name soldiers invoked in battle. He had worked so hard; he had read all the history books that Dorian had lent him, studied them thoroughly, he had sat with Ambassador Montilyet for hours practising etiquette, learning about the Game, and he had sparred with Cassandra until he was ready to drop from exhaustion—everything to become the Inquisitor they needed. And oh, he had done splendidly, far better than anyone would have thought. 

Nuada was ready to stop Corypheus, whatever it took, and that was what scared Dorian. 

~

The forest was certainly not Dorian’s natural habitat. He tried to pretend that it did not make him uncomfortable, but he snapped twigs with every other step, and at one point he was very close to tripping on a root and falling on his face—Cassandra caught his wrist, and gave him a look that he could not interpret. There were bird sounds everywhere, so many of them unknown to him, and the air was so clear it hurt his lungs. Dorian snuck glances at Nuada while they walked. The elf was bathed in the green light that filtered through the tree crowns; he belonged here as surely as Dorian did not, his graceful movements in perfect harmony with his surroundings. As if he knew, Nuada turned his gaze, and caught Dorian staring. 

Dorian hesitated. But then he smiled, and walked up to him. “This temple, to… Mythal? Do you know of it?” 

Nuada gave him a long look. “Mythal is one of our gods—Mythal the Protector, she is called, but she is also a goddess of justice. My vallaslin honour her.”

Dorian looked again at the intricate tattoos, like branches climbing over Nuada’s elegant cheekbones. “Are you allowed to choose?”

“What?” Nuada stepped nimbly between the branches on the ground.

Dorian failed to follow the labyrinthine path, and there was a _snap_. He cleared his throat, and clarified,“do you get to choose what… _vallaslin_ you get?” Kaffas, Dorian hoped he had pronounced it correctly—he had to admit it would be a tad bit embarrassing otherwise, since Nuada had just said the word. 

Nuada did not comment on the pronunciation. “Ah, yes. When I received my vallaslin, I had made the decision to dedicate myself to Mythal.”

Dorian nodded, thoughtful. Nuada’s voice was unusually reserved, and he had not elaborated, but they were also in the midst of war, pursuing Corypheus to an ancient elven temple, and there was no time to even think about, much less discuss, drunken kisses. It was for the best, Dorian had to remind himself. They must focus on the task at hand. 

~

They fought their way through the temple of Mythal, splattering blood over the ancient stone. Dorian felt like an intruder, and kept silent and close to the others. 

Was Nuada more reckless than usual? Dorian did not have time to consider that further, as a templar glowing red came at him. 

The battlefield was chaos. Dorian cast a firestorm that raged around them while Solas sheathed them in ice, Cassandra’s sword cleaving unforgiving through the once-templars, and Nuada’s knives a blur of red death—until they reached Samson. 

The red templar flung out with unnatural strength, and Nuada's light body arced through the air like a rag doll. The elf landed in a heap on the ground with enough force to knock the air out of his lungs and the knives from his hands. 

Dorian was too far away, there were too many templars between them, and he could only watch in horror as Samson closed in on Nuada. The elf scrambled for his knife, only an arm’s length away, but Samson kicked it and it skidded out of reach with a horrible, scraping sound. 

Dorian flung a desperate spell at the templar who charged towards him, flung another in Samson’s direction, but his aim was off and it flew past. Samson smiled a mad, inevitable smile as he lifted his sword to swing at Nuada on the ground. _“Nuada!”_ Dorian shouted, and barely recognised his own voice. 

Nuada rolled, and Dorian watched the sword slam down where the elf had just been. 

Then Cassandra swept in, her sword heading towards Samson with grim certainty. Her blade burrowed itself in the red templar’s body, and then a knife stabbed at him from behind, and as Samson fell to his knees, Dorian saw Nuada standing behind him, blood clogged in his starlight hair, staining the tattoos on his cheekbones. 

Dorian let out a shaky breath, feeling more useless than ever. 

~

Dorian watched the conversation quietly. The guardian, Abelas, was intimidating, and for once he did not wish to make himself known. 

Morrigan had returned, and was arguing with the sentinel elf; she was becoming angrier by the minute.

Nuada put his blood-slick blade to Morrigan’s throat, and she stilled. 

Dorian blinked. 

Abelas, the sentinel, was regarding Nuada with renewed curiosity. The Inquisitor, a Dalish elf that had received no warm welcome by the guardians of this temple, was now, covered in blood and looking utterly wild, forcing his companion back from the Well of Sorrows. 

“You will stand down, now, Morrigan.”

Dorian half expected her to turn into a bird again, but she did not. She took a step back. 

Abelas looked at Nuada with a newfound respect, and declared that he had changed his mind. Dorian did not understand the last part of the conversation, as they spoke it in elvhen. After the sentinel left them, Morrigan spoke up, 

“Inquisitor, I believe—“

“Enough!” 

Dorian flinched. He had never seen Nuada this angry, this _uncontrolled_ —

“I am of the Dalish, and I do not need you to explain to me the culture of my people. I bear the markings of Mythal, to whom this temple is dedicated. I am already her servant, and it is an insult to me that you say you are better suited for this knowledge.”

Morrigan was frowning, but to her credit, kept quiet. 

Nuada cast a glance at Dorian, and Dorian felt a sinking feeling in his stomach. He wanted to say something, but it was too late now. Nuada had already decided. There was no emotion in Nuada’s blue eyes, only cold determination. Dorian knew what he was doing, and he made to step forward to intervene, but Nuada only had to take a few steps to the Well. The elf walked into the water, the ripples spreading around his legs, slowly. 

Dorian felt it, again, that dangerous feeling—he didn’t want Nuada to do this. He wanted Nuada for himself, safe somewhere far away from here, not risking his life every day as the Inquisitor. 

Nuada cupped his hands into the water and drank. Dorian realised, helplessly, that he loved him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I realised I won't be able to fit everything in one more chapter, so there will be two more after this! Also I know the chapter title is a bit misleading... there will definitely be more kissing in the next!

**Author's Note:**

> Every other chapter will be from Nuada's perspective and every other will be from Dorian's. English is not my first language so there could be some wonky stuff going on with my writing. Feedback is welcome!:)


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